Stupid Is And Stupid Does: Time Once Again For A Smackdown At The Dept. Of Nance!

What with my wine cellar and my Retirement, I find that I have strayed from one of my Original Missions here at the Dept., that being to Smack Down Some Stupid from time to time.  Let me assure you that This Time Has Come, and while I'm not nearly as viciously ready as I have been in the past (even though it is an Election Year), there is plenty of Abject Idiocy clamouring to be clobbered.  Here we go:

1.  Starting Small:  Yesterday was our wedding anniversary (#31) and Rick and I went to a wine bar for appetizers and drinks.  They have a nice atmosphere and some delicious lamb sliders.  Anyway, since I never eat sweets there, I never saw this on the menu, till last night:

Poor Mickey!

I don't want to give up on this place, but you know my policy.  Plus, how do you spell words like "caramel" and "chevre" and "arugula" correctly, but not "mousse?"  Especially when it's another thing entirely, like a small, furry animal? Someone should at least be smacking himself...on the forehead.

2.  Giving The Rest Of Us A Bad Name:  It's bad enough that the word "blogger" is ugly to say, hear, and even look at.  It sounds like swampy old oatmeal or something. And thanks to the stereotype of ruthless and/or jobless Internet addicts who sit hunched over a screen in a basement while launching scurrilous rumours worthy of Faux News personalities intent on damning the Democrats or finding evidence of Jesus/Ronald Reagan in an order of Clams Casino, we all get the bad rap.  Case in point:  NEO's own Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Connie Schultz was contacted via email by a conservative blogger who was "doing an expose on journalists in the elite media who socialize with elected officials they are assigned to cover" and wanted her comment regarding how she seemed to be cozying up to Ohio's Senator Sherrod Brown, who is running for re-election. 

(Brief digression here:  Look, given the chance, I would cozy up to Sen. Brown in a heartbeat. I adore Sherrod Brown.  Back many years ago, my sister Patti and I considered a campaign wherein we would offer to sleep with Sherrod Brown in order to convince him to run for Governor.  I am not kidding.  Then, Patti told me...well, wait a minute...)

Ms. Schultz emailed back, and I quote: "I am surprised you did not find a photo of me kissing U.S. Sen. Sherrod Brown so hard he passes out from lack of oxygen. He's really cute.  He's also my husband.  You know that, right?"

(...and that's why Patti and I ended our campaign.  As an avid reader and admirer of Connie Schultz, we could not, in good conscience, pursue our strategy. I still love Sherrod Brown.  When ads for his opponent come on and urge me to call Sen. Brown's office to bitch about something he purportedly did, I instead call and say wonderful things. I really do.  EVERY TIME.  And I tell them why.)

Back to The Stupid.  The only scandal here, Conservative Blogger, is that you are too damn dumb to USE THE GOOGLE.  Now put down that Starbucks, wipe those Cheeto crumbs off your face, and let me smack ya.  ;)

3.  Le Bullshit.  Holy crap, could you not be any more nauseated by the sophomoric petulance of...oh, pretty much everyone when they saw that Our Sacred American Olympians would be wearing OhMyGOD a BERET!?  I mean, what on earth was Ralph Lauren thinking?  That is a French Hat!  A Goddamned chapeau!  This is AMERICA last time I checked!  We wear HATS.  NO ONE IN THIS WHOLE EFFING COUNTRY WEARS SOME FRENCH-FRIED WUSS HAT LIKE

US Army Special Forces

Oh.

But those hats were made in CHINA!  WE EXPECT OUR OLYMPIANS TO WEAR OLYMPIC UNIFORMS MADE IN AMERICA.  WE ARE AMERICANS.  WE WANT OLYMPIC UNIFORMS MADE IN...



2002 US Team Uniforms

Oh, yeah.  Canada.  Well, at least they're in North America. 

Point is, What a bigass lot of grandstanding over something that, in the final analysis, means little.  (How about the fact that ONE beret costs 55 bucks and ONE men's blazer $795?)  If the American People want to get jazzed about something Of Vast Importance, certainly there are a myriad of things far more worthy of their distress.  I know I can think of about, oh, eleventy hundred of them, not the least of which is the fact that the republicans keep bitching about Jobs Jobs Jobs, yet they keep trying to legislatively crawl up my vagina and into my uterus as if they are going to somehow find them there.  Take it from me, Speaker Boehner and Candidate Mittens, many people, including my husband and several Medical Professionals have been there both officially and recreationally, (not in that order), and THERE ARE NO JOBS THERE.

Glad I could clear that up for you.  Consider yourselves both enlightened and smacked.

My!  That was invigorating!  Why oh why did I wait so long?  What do you think?  Or who has been languishing on your list?

I'm Back--Again--And I Might Shave My Head (But Not In Honor Of The Pseudo-Druids)



 It's like all I do is pack, unpack, and repack my suitcase. 

Rick and I have just returned from an extended holiday at Niagara-on-the-Lake in Wonderful Canada.  We thought we'd be escaping from the searing heatwave here in NEO, but The Canadians, who are everso polite at all times, kindly provided identical climatalogical conditions there so that we would not miss it.

Sigh.

But why should I bitch?  Our car has airconditioning and so did all of the wineries.  Suffering was minimal.

(Allow me for a moment, however, to digress here and Be A Stereotypical Woman and say this:  My hair looked like crap and gave me fits the entire six days of this vacation as well as the preceding one in Virginia.  So much so that, in Virginia, I called my stylist from the resort in order to book an appointment for the day I returned, and my hair still looked like hell during my Canadian vacation.  Honestly, I've just had it.  I've switched shampoos four times, styling gel three times, tried something called a "root volumizer", and used a round brush while I blow dry.  I've spent more time with my hair in the past month than I did with my kids during most of their babyhoods.  At the age of fifty-three, I want to let go of My Hair as an Issue.  I know my Vanity is an enormous Part Of My Pathology--I KNOW THAT.  But every single woman in the world knows that, even if you have a mustard stain on your shirt, if your Hair Looks Great, nothing else matters.  Even your mascara and do not get me started on that.)

Heavy Sigh.  Anyway.

On one of the days when it was not terribly torrid, we went to The Niagara Horticultural College grounds and walked all over for hours, looking at all the various plants and trees and gorgeous vegetable and herb plantings.  It took all my restraint not to raid some incredible onions, ruffly lettuces, perfectly chubby and charming cabbages, and grab some other interesting things I knew would be much happier in my yard.  They have so many lovely trees there, too, and I am fascinated by the variety and placement of some of them, and the striking black squirrels they attract.

Near a large pond area was a Dawn Redwood, one of my favorite trees.  As we approached it, we noticed these little...figures assembling all around its base.  Here, look:

Can you see them?  I took the photo with my iPhone as I walked nearer and nearer.  I thought that perhaps they were a student project because they look like little carvings--like little Druids or something, and they were all converging to the right, like they were headed to worship or something.  We moved closer to get a better look and another shot:



I soon discovered that these are, in fact, the upraised roots of this Dawn Redwood tree.  They are very sturdy and some are covered in bark.  There were other Dawn Redwoods on the grounds, and none but this had the little Druid Root People.  This tree, though, was the only one near the water.

Here's a little clutch standing by the shore, like a family.  Aren't they just fascinating?  It's unfortunate that there is no one on the grounds or anyplace to ask about the interesting things you see at the College.  I would have loved to know anything about this phenomenon.  It's not something I recall from my reading of The Wild Trees, the terrific book that inspired my love of redwoods.  But it was a long time ago that I read it; I think it's time to visit it again.

Once we were done wandering, we sat on a bench near the entrance to have a cold drink and do a little people-watching. The Niagara area is always great for that because it draws so many international visitors.  We sat near a very lovely, very patient horse hitched to a carriage-for-hire.  Nearby, its companion also waited, just as beautiful, but not nearly as patient, for it stamped its rear hoof whenever a child came near.  Soon, we heard a lot of screaming.  Not pained or frightened, just some kid who felt like screaming.  It was a black-haired boy of about four with obviously a lot of energy.  His parents were completely indifferent.  He approached the cranky horse, who stamped his rear hoof several times.  The driver skillfully intercepted the boy and stood at the horse's head.  The patient horse was not so lucky.  At least the boy settled somewhat for the following scene:

Boy approaches horse.  Mother and father rush over.  Father bends to speak to boy and then encourages him to pet the horse.  Mother is obviously fretting, but holds up camera for photo.

Nance:  That poor, long-suffering horse.  Now that kid is going to badger it.  You know darn well that instead of petting it, he'll clobber it.
Rick:  The parents are oblivious.
Nance:  I would think the best way to approach that horse would be to--
Rick:  (interrupting)--get in there as quick as you can and just go for it!  Before the horse even knows what hit it!
Nance:  (looks at him in shock and disbelief)...What I was going to say is "hold the kid's hand and pet it very slowly so that he doesn't go crazy".  What in the hell...? 
Rick:  Or, you could try that.  Yeah.  That.

End Scene.

I'm Back From Vacation And My Brain Is Bursting--Time To Swiffer The Cerebellum

Time for a good Clear-Out of the Cranial Crud, so let's just get on with it, shall we? Good!

1.  Why Can't I Quit You?    I am talking about my LoveHate, Daniel Day-Lewis.  Not to be tedious here, but my Longtime Readers know of my eleventy hundred year affair with this man and my dismay with his failure to A) reprise his Glory Days of The Last of the Mohicans by taking glamour roles and B) look handsome and dress well in public the few times he does surface.

Right now, the stars have aligned and three of my Favourite Things have come together as one:  President Lincoln, historian Doris Kearns Goodwin, and DD-L, for a movie has been made of her wonderful book Team of Rivals and DD-L is playing Lincoln.  When I heard this news, I was elated and thrilled.  When I saw this picture of DD-L as President Lincoln, I was excited. 

Then I saw his picture from the White House Correspondents' Dinner, where he was (inexplicably) a guest of The Huffington Post.

There is no excuse for that haircut.  His next role is a 17th century Jesuit priest who travels to Japan.  It is in pre-production. It's like he doesn't even care how much he embarrasses me.

2.  Why Didn't Someone Yell Cut?  And speaking of President Lincoln and film, I could not be more outraged, disappointed, and saddened by the ridiculous movie currently in theaters (and which I will not name here) that turns our 16th president into some sort of occult action hero.  Why not Nixon or Washington, or, oh hell, let's grab a non-president with a distinctive and readily-identifiable persona, Benjamin Franklin?

from Amazon Studios

 Honestly, the whole premise offends me.  Oh, I know that I'm sensitive to Anything Lincoln--I get that.  But it's awful.  I really believe that the only reason the filmmakers and producers are getting away with this travesty is because there are no surviving direct descendants of the Lincoln line.

3.  Doesn't Anyone Else Speak English?  Now, back to books.  Those of you who actually read at my site may have noticed in the sidebar that I'm reading--off and on--a book titled The Whole Truth by David Baldacci.  It's not My Kind Of Book, but I got it because A) it was part of my campaign to broaden my reading spectrum and not be so snobby; B) it was only a few bucks in hardback when a bookstore was closing; and C) it is a genre that a buddy of mine enjoys.  So I'm reading this and I notice a sentence that rocks me up off my chaise longue and causes me to say out loud to no one,"Oh my GOD NO WAY IS THIS IN HERE!"  Here is the offending sentence from page 165: When the screams reached Anna's ear, she thought someone had injured themself.  

I. Know.  Go ahead.  Look up "themself" in the dictionary (or try anyway).  Look up "someone."  Now look up the rule governing pronoun-antecedent agreement, just for the hell of it.  Then try not to kill yourself at any point along the way.   And this sentence is only one example.  I took this sentence to lunch with a bunch of English teachers, and during our chat, I said, "I bet if I did a Fry Readability Assessment on this book, it would score only about a sixth grade level.  Seriously.  It's a New York Times best seller, and it's just so elementary.  It's a Guy Book, but it's just basic." My friend Caroline said, "Who's it by, now?"  I said, "David Baldacci."  She responded with a grimace, "Well, what did you expect from a former child star who has had a bunch of drug problems and all that?  Wasn't he the one from The Partridge Family?"  (Gotta love her. But she just had a baby and a job change and...well, she gets a pass from me.) 

Now, I look at David Baldacci's bio.  He has a ton of best sellers to his credit and I have...zero.  He established the Wish You Well foundation, which, ironically, supports "family literacy in the United States by fostering and promoting the development and expansion of new and existing literacy and educational programs."  In the acknowledgements of The Whole Truth, he thanks his editor for doing a great job.  (But who allowed this sentence on p. 270:  Creel was actually a private investor in the newspaper and he'd been the one who'd discreetly behind the scenes orchestrated the assignment for her.)  And the Fry?  I was wrong. 

Hard to see, but my dot indicates the score. Maybe you can click and it will enlarge.

It graphed out at a 6.5 grade reading level, age 11.5.  David Baldacci is a Good Guy, but his writing is not for me.

4.  Speaking of bookstores, I want to come clean publicly for being The Responsible Party, The One Who Singlehandedly Closed Borders.  I'm sorry.  It was I.  I was the one who simply stopped going to bookstores and chose the Evil Convenience of Amazon.com.  I didn't even browse Borders and have cappuccino or biscotti or any of those other fun words to say at their cafe.  I was lured by the comfort of my chair at home and Super Saver Shipping.  I felt dirty and sinful and like a Horrid Opportunist when I swooped in and grabbed cheapo hardbacks during their Last Days, like the warty old women bartering over Scrooge's bedcurtains.  Please don't hate me.  I want redemption,  Help me.

5.  Finally, if you are sick of Sudoku and finding crosswords too conventional, allow me to introduce you to Jotto.  I have no idea how I found out about this addictive and frustrating little words and letters game, but it's too late to blame them now.  You're welcome.

Your turn.  Kick out some of your Cranium Clutter in Comments.

If You Want To Date My Son, You'll Have To Take A Quiz

Jared and Sam are wonderful individuals, but like most of the people in whose lives I take great interest, they often don't give a damn about what I say.  This is Irksome at the level of, say, their taste in clothing or their driving habits, but it becomes something more Momentous when it involves A Young Woman.  It is one matter when Jared wears only Christmas-themed boxers as his underwear of choice and Sam cannot stop speeding on Route 480; it is quite another when they start Getting Serious with The Wrong Women.

It does no good to remind them that I certified as a marksman with a .22 caliber rifle, either.  They know that A) I do not own any gun but a BB gun, and B) that was back in my freshman year of college.  (Neither of those is any comfort to the Robber Squirrels at my bird feeder, though! Ha!)

Anyway.

In order to assist them--and me--in their quest for An Acceptable Woman, I developed a quiz.  I urged them to administer the Quiz to any and all prospective girlfriends before they got too terribly serious with them.  It's easy, I reminded them, to be bewitched by a lovely smile, cute figure, and ready laugh.  But it's vastly more critical to be able to relate to, talk with, and be interested by her.  Some things can be overlooked (she calls it "fro-yo", wears PINK across her butt, hates cats), but the young woman has got to have some brains, after all.

I've published my Acceptable Woman Quiz here, for you to see.  The Quiz and its Scoring Guide are available as separate pages on the blog simply by clicking the tabs up top.  Let me know what you think. 

Sam's current girlfriend passed with a good score.  Jared didn't administer the Quiz to his girlfriend...yet.  He said, "I think she'd do pretty well." 

I hope so!  ;-)

In Which I Find A Soulmate In ConFic, Analyze Myself, And Engage You In My Quest

One day during a long ago (circa 1990s) Creative Writing II class, I overheard one of my writers say, "When they get that big, they're just not...fun anymore!"

Immediately, the entire room was blanketed in that sort of unified silence that occurs unexpectedly, and every single student stared at little Jennifer Lewis, who was not even five feet tall and happened to be wearing her cheerleader uniform, thus rendering her even more adorable.  She got very, very pink and quickly said, "Feet!  Feet!  I was talking about feet!"

Ah, Jennifer!  It was wisdom like that--and your startling talent--that got you all A's in CW.

For now, much to my great dismay, it is The Season Of Feet.  They are Everywhere.  I cannot escape them.  No matter the venue, be it grocery store, bank, pet supply shop, department store, or restaurant, feet are all over the place.  At least I am no longer in my classroom, where I would have had to be confined with as many as twenty pairs of feet in various stages of undress every forty-five minutes, five times a day.  Highschool students, especially this unseasonably warm year, would have started wearing The Dreaded Flipflops as early as March.

Ugh.  When did Flipflops (Called THONGS back in my childhood, that term means something entirely different now.) become appropriate Public Footwear for middle class adults?  Who first broke this Societal/Class Barrier?  Bring her to me!  Off with her head!  Honestly, I thought I was alone in this discomfort with and dismay over flipflops (Arrgh! The name alone is irritating, juvenile, and Seussian!) until I read Jonathan Franzen's novel Freedom.  In it, the character and sometimes-narrator Patty bitterly muses about young people:

"I have some issues with their flipflops.  It's like the world is their bedroom.  And they can't even hear their own flap-flap-flapping, because they've all got their gadgets, they've all got their earbuds in.  Every time I start hating my neighbors around here, I run into some...kid on the sidewalk, and suddenly forgive the neighbors because at least they're adults.  At least they're not running around in flipflops, advertising how much more laid-back and reasonable they are than us adults. Than uptight me, who would prefer not to look at people's bare feet on the subway. Because, really, who could object to seeing such beautiful toes? Such perfect toenails? Only a person who's too unluckily middle-aged to inflict the spectacle of her own toes on the world."

Once I read that, I stopped to consider:  Am I against that footwear because I merely hate my own feet, or because I hate feet in general?  Or is it a symptom, like Patty's, of a deep dislike of teenagers and/or twentysomethings?  I concluded thusly:
1.  I do dislike my own feet.
2.  I hate all feet in general, excepting baby and toddler feet. (The Jennifer Lewis Rule)
3.  I like teenagers as a rule; always did.
4.  I am routinely annoyed by twentysomethings as a group, but don't often dislike them individually.

Look, adult feet are ugly.  Even if you tan them up, grease the cracked heels, grate off the skin rinds, and polish the nails (but lay off the greens and blues--urk), they still spend time hanging out at ground level in public.  Those are the facts.  They do a utilitarian job for about sixteen hours a day and look it. Multiply that over the span of years a person's been walking. THAT IS WHY WE HAVE GREAT-LOOKING SHOES AVAILABLE. 

And, hey, all that Maintenance Stuff up there?  That is Pedicure Business, which I'm not having.  Even if you call it the cutesy "pedi."  Do. Not. Touch. The. Feet.  I don't even like to recognize the fact that I have feet. Except for the purpose of owning the aforementioned GREAT-LOOKING SHOES.  Which leads me to...

My Brown Sandal Dilemma.  Briefly touched upon in comments in my previous post, I am locked in a years-long search for the perfect brown sandal which, should I find it, I will buy all pairs of it in my size (8.5), thus forestalling another quest for as long as possible.  Here are my

BROWN SANDAL REQUIREMENTS
1.  Flat, but some arch support
2.  Nothing between my toes
3.  No ankle strap
4.  Show as few of my toes as possible
5.  No flowers or flowery decoration
6.  No gladiator styling
7.  Reasonably priced

Why is this so hard?  Where is it, this Brown Sandal Of Nance-Nirvana?  It is gone, too, the way of Mars Bars and Sane Republicans.  Heavy Sigh.

Instead, I suffer daily with Flipflops and...well, you know the rest.  On the upside, two of my nieces are expecting this fall.  Soon enough, there will be four little Democrat baby feet to play with. 

In Which A Mainstream Retail Outlet Seemingly Legitimizes Black-Market Child Trafficking (And On A Sunday, Too!)

Scene opens on living room.  Nance is in her huge chair, browsing the Sunday advertisements, while Rick, on couch right, peruses Sports section.  The cats are chasing each other throughout the house, threatening respective mugs of coffee and tea.

Nance:  Anything good in the paper?
Rick:  I'm only looking at the Sports.  The Indians are getting killed--again--by the White Sox.  I don't know what it is about that team.  The Tribe just cannot get past them.
Nance:  At least we smacked Detroit around...hey.  Here's a thing.  Macy's is having a sale on babies.  They're forty percent off.  Look.  (shows Rick the ad pictured above)
Rick:  Huh.  So...you can get...let's see...a white girl baby or a white boy baby. 
Nance:  Well, what do you want for forty percent off?  That's why there's not much of a selection.
Rick:  That's for sure.
Nance:  Says here their names are Carter, Levi, and Nautica.  And more.  Well, I don't think much of the names.  They sound---
Rick:  --Levi?  Well, to me that sounds---
Nance:  ---Jewish?
Rick:  No, I was going to say Amish.
Nance:  Yeah, it does sound Amish, too.  And Nautica...
Rick:  Kind of a theme name.  Like the kid will grow up to be a sailor.
Nance:  Well, you know, when we went to Friendship APL and got Piper and Marlowe, they had names already--really terrible and awful and dumb names that I hated.  I just renamed them.  I'm assuming that whoever buys a Forty Percent Off Baby at Macy's can do the same.
Rick:  Does it say these kids come already potty-trained?  Because Piper and Marlowe were already litterbox-trained.
Nance:  (leafs through ad)  Hmm.  No, but the girl is pictured in here walking, so it's a distinct possibility.  Hard to tell.  Diapers now aren't as bulky as they used to be, you know?
Rick:  Doesn't matter, actually.  It's not like we're going to get one anyway.
Nance:  No, but I do need a pair of brown sandals.

End Scene

So Much Stupid And So Little Time! Whence All Of These Bad Ideas?

Oh, Readers!  Did you ever get the feeling that you were the Only One On The Job anymore?  Certainly you recall how many times I have renewed my offer to make the Dept. of Nance a bona fide department.  I am offering it again, for I have borne witness to so much Stupid, so many Bad Ideas lately, that it is patently obvious to me that Someone has to do Something.  Here now:

Example A:  This past weekend, our Cleveland NBC affiliate had a segment on its Saturday morning infotainment show about what not to get moms for Mothers Day.  It was clearly a "package" feed that they got from another affiliate because every mom in it had a pronounced Southern accent.  They all looked as if they were in a store parking lot (Walmart?) and were interviewed at the sides of their vehicles or in them.  "Don't get appliances!" one woman said in a dire voice.  Another woman drawled, "I hate gift certificates or gift cards. There doesn't seem to be much thought in those."  One greyhaired lady with very few teeth said cheerily, "I jest want hugs and kisses and all mah fam'ly around!"  At the end of the segment, our local anchorwoman said, "For those of you taking Mom out to brunch, Ruby Tuesday's has a free cookbook for every mom!"

Wow.  Message there?  Here's your meal out, but as of tomorrow?  Get back in the kitchen where you belong!  Really, Ruby Tuesday's?  And, on Fathers Day, will they get a cookbook? Bet not.  Spare me.  What a load of cliché and stereotypical bullshit. I said as much--and plenty more on this theme--to Rick as I went in to grab a shower.  Then, I turned around and said, "And!" to which he said, "I knew you weren't done."  But really, how condescending.  "Here, little ladies.  Enjoy your meal out, but let's remember what Being A Mom Is All About.  Now scoot back in there and tie that apron real tight!" Grrrrr....!

Example B:  Because of Hormonal Fluctuations and The (Now Hopefully Permanent) Cessation Of Sanguinary Hostilities, I have been having intermittent migraines.  I awoke with a real bitch of one last week, and struggled to make use of my migraine medication.  Let me just say that the people at Maxalt "have a lot of 'splaining to do" about their product and may they rot in everlasting circles of Migraine Hells   engage in a little R&D toute de suite so that others do not suffer in kind.  Here is a little Photo Essay to demonstrate.  (And imagine yourself in Excruciating Agony while two pleasant but hungry cats annoy the hell out of you.)

1. First, you have to try to pry this open.

2. To get this, the second package.
READ THOSE DIRECTIONS!

3. NOW, IF I can peel this off, I can push the
melty little pill onto my tongue and LIVE.

Really, Merck&Co?  Don't you have any Migraine Sufferers on board over there at all?  Do you honestly think I can even see those directions, let alone fold on that fucking line, then have the patience to locate an almost nonexistent notch, tear it--OR USE SCISSORS--all in order to THEN OPEN ANOTHER FUCKING PACKAGE?!  As my students used to say, "Somebody needs to get real."

Example C:  Much of the time, I simply cannot stand to think of using my dreadmill (hence the name).  The weather has been temperate, so I do my walking outdoors in the 'hood.  I try to time it so as not to disturb the local schoolchildren with my presence.  I have to tell you, though:  it's boring walking the same routes over and over.  In order to break the monotony, I give myself little tasks and little things to look for, like a Quirky Scavenger Hunt.  I wasn't on one of those when I saw this Quintessential Bad Idea, however:


This is just So Bad on So Many Levels, that I'm almost in awe of its Badness. I mean, come on.  What, exactly, is the thought process here?  All right!  Those damn kids want a trampoline, we'll give them a trampoline!  I've told them and told them we don't really have the room, but they just won't shut the hell up.  The city says we have to have a safety fence, and damn it, we do!  Not safe for them, but oh well!  And I swear to God, the first one who impales himself can just walk to the hospital for all I care!  And if they want those branches trimmed, they can goddam well do it themselves, the little shits! 

In the front yard of this house were a ton of kid toys.  And bikes and happiness.  But that back yard. Yikes.  Interestingly, there is another house in the neighborhood with a scary trampoline setup almost identical to this one.  I was all set to photograph it as well, but they put up one of those cage-net thingies that completely encloses the trampoline, rendering it much safer. I was devastated because this trampoline had the bonus of a nearby garage gutter.  Alas.

But, really, parents? Allow me, if you will.  TRAMPOLINES + PICKET FENCES = KID KEBAB (NO GOOD).

Had to be said, apparently.

Saturday With St. Patsy

On Saturday I had the opportunity to renew my Good Daughter Merit Badge.  Rick and I went and picked up St. Patsy at the Lakehouse where she spent a week with her sister and ladyfriend, and transported her back home.  I'll let you decide if I earned it.

Scene I.

Main room of lakehouse.  Older woman is bustling to pack up a mountain of luggage, baskets, tote bags, a cooler, etc. in preparation to leave.  Younger woman observes with dismay, but wisely chooses not to remark upon the volume of stuff.  She is, instead, having a glass of chardonnay.

Nance:  Mom!  You'll be happy tonight! Guess what's on TV!
St. Patsy:  (looks up expectantly; is honestly excited) What?  Give me a hint.
Nance:  It's a Tragic Heroine Double Feature tonight on one of the old movie channels! Guess what's on.
St. Patsy:  (smiling; really happy now) No!  You mean on TNC?
Nance: (laughs)  Mom!  What the hell is TNC?  It's "TCM" or "AMC".  Turner Classic Movies or American Movie Classics!  But yes, one of those, and I think it's AMC.  Doesn't matter; you can look at the guide. Guess the movies.  Remember, both are tragic female leads.
St. Patsy: (now completely not packing at all; unable to multi-task) Oh, well! Has to be Camille.
Nance: (proud, but a little surprised) Yes!  Camille is the first one.  What's the second?
St. Patsy: (leaning on a barstool now; thinking really hard)  Now...is it...well, don't I even get a hint?
Nance: (teasing) What a wimp.  Okay, here's your clue:  Same leading man in both of them.  Robert Taylor.
St. Patsy:  (frowns; then brightens)  Oh!  Oh!  Gotta be D-Day 6th of June!
Nance: What?!  How is that a Tragic Heroine Movie?  Now you're just grasping at straws!  I'm so disappointed in you.  I could not be more--
St. Patsy:  (interrupts)--well, what's his character's name?
Nance:  I don't know!  Besides, that's not even fair.  Here's your next clue:  He is military and she--
St. Patsy: (triumphant)  Oh, Waterloo Bridge!  Oh, boy.  I will be crying tonight!  I better have plenty of tissues. 
Nance:  I know, right?  I knew you'd be happy.

Scene 2. 

Interior of car on the ride home.  Rick is driving, Nance is up front, St. Patsy is in the passenger seat, crowded by several pieces of luggage that would not fit in the hatchback of the Prius.  Nance and St. Patsy have been reminiscing about the myriad car trips of her youth.

St. Patsy: (fondly) Remember taking the long way with your father down 511?  It was way out of the way, but you kids put up with it because he would stop at the ice cream place and get you all a twist cone.
Nance:  Yep.  I remember.
St. Patsy:  There were a lot of cows that way, Nance.  (very bright and happy now) And those goats!
Nance:  What?  Why would you say that to me?
St. Patsy:  Say what?
Nance:  About the goats.
St. Patsy: What about them?  There were always a whole bunch, remember?
Nance:  Mom!  I really cannot believe that you would be so cavalier in your mention of goats to me, considering my Childhood Trauma with them!
St. Patsy:  What childhood trauma?
Nance:  (turning fully around in her seat; indignant)  What childhood trauma?!  Don't you remember that travelling petting zoo at the mall when we were little and we went in to it and that goat ate my favorite dress that Grandma made me?  How upset I was? How do you not remember that?  Oh. My. God, Mom.
St. Patsy:  (giggling) Oh that's right.  I do remember that.
Nance: (aggravated and wounded) Holy crap, Mom.  That was traumatic for me.  And you are laughing! (more laughter from the backseat)  Wow.  I bet if it was Patti* who had her favorite dress eaten by a renegade goat, it would be a whole different story. Because Patti-- *(note: Patti is the eldest and perceived favorite daughter)
St. Patsy:  (interrupts) --Oh, Nance!  (begins to mock-sing a tragic violin/movie music interlude) Da da daaaa da da, da da da daaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Nance:  (horrified at her callousness) Mom! Really? First you don't remember my childhood goat trauma and then you mock me?
St. Patsy: (calm) But I remember your attraction to cattle.

Finis.

Welcome To Helpfultown, USA. Our Motto: If You're Not Happy, We're Not Happy!

Even though my plans are to leave it in the not-too-distant future, I have to admit it:  my town is such a helpful, nurturing little town.  For example, this billboard, strategically placed at the railroad bridge:

If you're even thinking about it, we can help.  Help with...?  But, in any case, the train tracks and height of the bridge there might just be all the assistance you require.  But hey!  Just a few yards away, if you level your gaze to a traffic sign, you get something a bit more catchy, a bit more...hip to help you work things out:

You know?  He was more than just a poser from South Texas and Miami; that Vanilla Ice really knew about Life.  Who knows how many people could be saved from Thinking of Suicide if they'd just Collaborate And Listen?

Or, if all else should fail, look down a bit more and to the side, where yet another helpful hint awaits.  Simple, basic, and to the point, sometimes it helps to just



...though your heart is aching...smile, even though it's breaking...when there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by...if you smile...

But let's say you don't.  You just cannot "get by."  Well, fear not, My Town Travellers!  Sojourn but a little longer--a block longer, across from a Walgreens, as a matter of fact--and find respite in

Could this place be any more accommodating?  We just want to help you to be The Best You That You Can Be!  Happy Trails!

Smell Books And Candles

When I was a kid, my sister Patti and my brother Bobby and I used to play the card game Authors.  I don't even remember when we got the game--probably Patti, the Future English Teacher At The Time got it for Christmas--but we played it like crazy for a long stretch of time.  We had the version pictured above, and the game is played like Go Fish. 

Like most kids who sit around together, we'd eventually get silly.  Pretty soon, we began to personalize Authors, changing the names of some of the titles and of some of the authors themselves.

The first change was poor Longfellow, who was immediately rechristened Santa Claus, for obvious reasons.  Shortly after that, my brother could be heard to ask in a game, "Do you have The Village Idiot by Santa Claus?" rather than for The Village Blacksmith by Longfellow. 

Pretty soon, every card had been customized.  Sir Walter Scott wrote Ken-L-Ration, Washington Irving wrote The Alhamburger, and Crossing the Bar was written by Mikhail Kuprikov, the drunk who lived on our street.  And let's not forget Nathaniel Hawthorne's masterpiece House of the Seven Betty Grables. 

So irreverent we were!  Is nothing sacred?  I can still remember the goofy faces Bobby made as he asked for The PickyWicky Papers by Charles Dickens.  There are probably still Cheeto smears on some of the cards.  It's terrible!  These authors should be honored and treasured...and...

Now you can smell like them. 

Okay, actually that's not entirely accurate.  You can "pay homage to the literary greats" by burning candles made with scents inspired by their works.  I found these candles at the bookstore last week.  My friend Sue and I spent many minutes sniffing and deciding which candles we liked, didn't like, and which ones made sense for the authors they represented.  Walt Whitman's scent blend of grass, thyme, and red clover is exceedingly appropriate.  We both loved the smell of Edgar Allan Poe's, cardamom, sandalwood, and absinthe, but while it smelled wonderful, I have issues with its authenticity.  It doesn't really represent Poe, and it perpetuates the myth of Poe's recreational drug/alcohol use.  Jane Austen, the only female author represented (how sad and silly, really), is signified by an overpowering floral melange of jasmine, tuberose, and gardenia.  Truly awful.  How could they ignore Emily Dickinson, for example, whose scent could have contained notes of apple, cinnamon, lavender, vanilla, or even caramel, which she loved to make, along with her pies and cookies? 

Belletristic Candles--an interesting gimmick. I look at the authors as of yet "unscented" and I think about what their candles would smell like.  I'm not sure they would care.  Each of them would be pleased with simply the flame--to know that, after so many years and so many eyes, their words still light the way.

Simple Pleasures

This year, my first year of retirement from teaching, has been truly lovely.  One promise I made to myself was to use this first year to genuinely appreciate time. Just time.  Time that wasn't parceled out in forty-five minute increments, five-day weeks, and breaths of summer.  I wanted to get away from the sensation of being always on rollerskates, speeding downhill.  Every so often, I try to trace back to when the Exact Moment was that the feeling of rushing headlong at...something left me.  No idea. 

But since then, I've made it my goal to not only appreciate Time, but a lot of other things as well.  It's not that I was ungrateful or dismissive of Small Things before.  I like to think that I have always been a Noticer Of Details, and an Appreciative Person.  The difference now is that I take time to stop and make a mental note of them.  Kind of like a brief homage.  I'm so weary of my past life as the Consummate Multi-tasker. I graded papers between classes; I unloaded the dishwasher as I made dinner; I cleaned the house as I walked in the back door from work, going from room to room, hanging up things, stowing things, wiping things--there were times I never sat down until dinner was ready.  Mainly because I knew that, once I did, I would not be able to get up again.

Probably not unlike so many of you.

Now, I have More Time.  Is everything Wonderful? No.  But I decided that I would at least find some Wonderfuls, notice them, no matter what.  Simple Pleasures, you know?  How shallow and horrific would I be if I couldn't find a few things to appreciate or smile about every day?  I would hate my own guts.

I was zooming through blogs and found that Anali/Lisa had written about much the same thing this week.  You can find her take on it here.

Anyway, here are a few Simple Pleasures in the past couple days that made me smile.  In Comments/Brainstorms, you can offer some of yours.  Or, you can just take the time and do something else.  Just enjoy it, whatever it is.

*Chardonnay--Rick and I really love this wine, and the toastier the better. We don't spend a lot of money per bottle on any wine, and we don't save wine for a special occasion. Any time we are together is special enough for a bottle of wine.  Even old Benjamin Franklin said that wine was "a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy."  If we can have it out on our deck on a warm afternoon or evening, so much the better.

*Michael Crawford's voice--I have an old CD in my car of Michael Crawford singing songs from Broadway shows and the movies. A few of my friends--my age--tease me about even having it.  I don't care.  His voice is incredible, and the concert he gave in Cleveland years ago was one that Rick and I still rank among our favorites.  I'd go see him again.  When I listen to him in my car, I actually feel privileged.  Can you imagine how his voice teacher feels?

*Sam's Goofy iPhone App--Sam is a tech junkie, but he does not have the newest iPhone with Siri, the built-in voice application that acts as the personal assistant who talks to you and answers your every whim.  So he does what every techie does, downloads the hack for it.  Now Sam's phone announces all of his incoming text messages, emails, and calls based upon how they are listed in his contacts list.  My all-time favorite is when FakeSiri announces an incoming missive from Sam's friend who is a professional rapper.  We could be sitting and enjoying a meal, watching a poignant moment on television, or having a serious discussion, and suddenly FakeSiri will declaim, in her robotic, white-girl voice, "Brandon Blizz Moneybagz Pride!"  (For those of you who click within the link, his lyrics are, like many of the genre, profane in spots and NSFW.) It just makes me laugh.

*The Camaraderie Of Others--I don't know if it is the writer or reader in me, or if it is even a "thing" at all, but I always find such satisfaction in listening to the easy back-and-forth of people who are comfortable with one another.  Sam and Jared, whose early relationship was difficult, are now great friends, and when they are together, it's like a Tom Stoppard play, but with more name-calling.  And, early this week, as our house was re-roofed, it was literally crawling with men from sunrise to sunset.  Sitting inside, I couldn't help but hear their banter as they hollered over the blatting compressors, pneumatic nailers, and the radio, which inexplicably played in competition with it all.  Oddly, their voices were what I could hear best through the din, filtered by the wood of the roof.  Aside from "Hey!" and "You talkin' to me?", which comprised the bulk of their conversation, they laughed and ribbed one another relentlessly as they traversed my roof, sometimes in a brief rain, and once, dodging a few wet snowflakes.  Rick did plenty of roofs in his early years as a contractor, so I know roofing is hard, backbreaking work, no matter what the weather.  I know they aren't having fun with the work.

Ah. Having fun with the work.  That's a Simple Pleasure too.  I hope those of you who are Still At It manage that one more often than not. I remember; it's not always easy.

But when I raise my wineglass--maybe tonight!--I will smile.  I will think of at least a few occurrences (the silence of roofing completed? finding Rick's glasses? my tarragon leafing out?) worth toasting.

Close Your Eyes And Think Of Something Blue And White...

Go on.  I'll be right here waiting.  Ready?  Did you think of this?

Maybe some of you did.  I might have, before.  Let me try again.  How about this?

Did I get a few more of you that time?  We've been seeing a lot of that lately.  Here's another try.  Maybe some of you thought of this:

After all, a few of you might be on vacation someplace beachy!  Lucky you!  Still more of you may have thought of this:

I think Dorothy wore a dress made of blue gingham in The Wizard of Oz. Maybe you even thought of that.

Chances are pretty good, however, that you did not think of this:

Wait.  Let me give you the side view.

You're welcome.

Of Food, The Facebook, Fantasy Sports, and Former Students--Life Is Good, You Know?

It's back to Real Life for me, I promise.  And with a vengeance.  Temps here have levelled off and although it's sunshiny and green outdoors, a quick step beyond the warm confines of the Dept. interior and I'm smacked in the yap with 44 degrees of More Sensibly March In NEO Weather.  And that's okay.  This is still the first winter in which I haven't had to wear my heavy coat more than twice.

A whole bunch of doodads have been bustling around in my brain this week.  I'm turning them loose for your consideration.

^)(^ Station KCRA of California, in an apparently slow news cycle, polled its listeners? viewers? fans regarding their most hated foods.  Of the list of 25, astonishingly, several are actually my favorite foods.  And of those remaining, I can honestly say that I would refuse to eat only two (okra and oysters).  Three of the most hated were actually on the menu of my childhood pretty much every Monday night during the school year--liver and onions, and lima beans.  I am not overly fond of:  raisins, tofu, and buttermilk (to drink), but I wouldn't say I hate them. I cook with raisins and buttermilk. Tofu...eh.  Not a fan.  I almost wept to see avocados on the list, and who could hate mushrooms?  And, really, peas?  Dear little peas?  Do NOT get me started on broccoli.  Or sour cream. What is wrong with America?

^)(^ Of course, you all know how I feel about The Facebook.  Apparently, however, I am on The Facebook completely against my will and on The Twitter as well.  This is thanks to my children, Sam and Jared, who have been so helpfully and kindly posting some of my text message conversations with them on their TwitFace accounts.  As you may recall, I am the owner of a Fantasy Basketball Team (and I made the playoffs, too, beating Jared out of a spot).  Many times, we discuss trades and do a little "trash talking" via text.  You may also recall that I can be rather profane colorful in my speech when I am...impassioned.  The boys think it is "funny" to post these on their TwitFace accounts where many of my former students see them and then make comments like, "I love your mom" and "The next time I see your mom, Imma gonna ask her to marry me" and "Ask your mom if she wants to be an owner in the NFL fantasy league" and "I love me some Ms D" and "I wish I could talk to my mom like that, that shit be crazy."  Again--and some of you want me to be on The Facebook! 

^)(^ Speaking of former students, I had an experience with one last week that reaffirmed for me just how privileged I was to have worked with my creative writers.  I had Eric in the 80s when I first started the creative writing program at my high school.  He swore he wouldn't write any stupid poetry, that all he wanted to do was write Stephen King-type stuff.  Long story short, I begged and got him to take my class.  He was brilliant, and we went on to continue a writer/editor relationship that developed into a deep friendship.  His work has appeared in a myriad of magazines; he has had a novella published as well as a couple of collections of poetry.  For years he made time to teach my class, many times for free, for a week.  Last week, he invited me to teach his.  I presented for a couple of hours on the topic of creative nonfiction using my blogs as examples.  Eric also presented me with an artist's copy of his latest book.  As usual, I burst into tears.  "You didn't even see the best part," he admonished me.  Turning to a flyleaf, he held it open, and showed me.  It was dedicated to me.

It's become fashionable to have a Life List, an inventory of places to visit or things to experience before Time Is Up.  I'm not a fan. I know myself too well.  Driven by Crossing Things Off, like so many To Dos or Chores, I'd lose sight of the Spontaneous Wonderfuls, like Having A Book Dedicated To Me, or Not Wearing A Coat In The Winter, or Owning A Fantasy Team, or even Trying Okra One More Time.

A Lot Can Happen In Two Weeks, Let Me Tell You

Wow.  So I'm pretty much meandering through my orbit as usual, you know:  doing my Retirement Thing, embracing the early spring, scooping up the unexpected pleasures of recently cheap avocados when my cellphone rings a week or so ago and it's my contact in New York whose charity I promo here and at The Report.  I answer it immediately, and she says instead of hello, "Nance!  Don't you ever check email?"  Once I assure her that, yes, of course I do, she tells me that she is calling to inform me that an associate of hers has been trying to reach me via email for nearly a week now.  "You'll want to talk to him; trust me," she promises.  "I'm giving you his number.  Call him now.  He's expecting your call."

First thought?  Check that spam folder.  I trust this woman implicitly, but there is no way I'm making a blind phone call.  St. Patsy didn't raise no fool.  My Dept. mail account gets a ton of spam, and it took forever to go through it.  Several looked like they could be legit offers for advertising at both my sites, and several were from NYC addresses with vague business ventures.  None mentioned my contact's name.  One was for a marketing venture, but didn't deal with specifics.  None of the phone numbers matched the one I was given.  I sighed, tapped the number into my phone, and waited.

"Hello, this is Mark."  Confused that I had not reached a business, I simply said hello, gave him my name, and said that I had been given his number and a message to call him from our mutual associate since he had been unable to reach me via email.  And things happened like lightning from there.

Briefly, he had been a fan of The Report and involved with the charity.  He was at another event where he spent a good part of the time chatting up an American designer (you'd definitely know the name if I told you) who is going to start up a sort of quirky menswear line which skews edgy and fashion-forward.  It will be primarily sold online.  As they were chatting, Mark said that he said, "You should get the woman who writes The Brian Williams Tie Report to do the ties.  Not only could she design them, but she could write the descriptions for them. Like J. Peterman, but better." 

Yada yada yada yada, fast forward, and The Designer knows The Report!  And loves the idea!  So I'm making arrangements to go to NYC to take a meeting (!!!), packing all my cool clothes in mostly black (of course), and reminding myself to breathe.  I get there, take the meeting, things look wonderful, sound even better, I breathe every now and then, my shoes look terrific, and we start hammering it out.  The Designer does not do The Details.  That is what The People are for.

The People:  Okay, Nance.  Great.  This looks great.
Nance:  I think so.
The People:  Before we get into any of the business particulars, can you think, off the top of your head, of any dealbreakers?  Anything that might keep this venture from going forward?  Anything, for example, that you don't want to see happen?
Nance:  Yes.  I don't want any republicans to wear the ties. (smiles)
The People:  (exchange somewhat bemused glances; forced chuckles) Ha ha.  Anything else?
Nance:  Actually, yes.  There is one thing.  And I feel very strongly about this.  Will the ties, at least, at the very least, be made in America?  I don't want my name associated with some sad, sweatshop scandal in Honduras.  I don't want to be Kathie Lee Gifford.  And I don't want people to say I sold out and abandoned my principles when there was fame or cash in front of me.
The People:  Well, certainly The Designer looks to encourge growth in the American labor markets.  But because The Designer is an international name, it would be shortsighted to outright eliminate foreign suppliers, be they goods or labor.  We look to all outlets to bring the highest possible quality product to the consumer for the best value.
Nance:  So, no, then? No, you cannot promise me that the ties I design and describe will be made in America?
The People:  What we're saying is that--
Nance:  (interrupting gently but firmly) I'm sorry.  Can you promise me that one thing or can't you?
The People:  No.
Nance:  That is my dealbreaker.  I'm sorrier than you can possibly ever imagine.  But I just cannot do it under that one single circumstance.  The ties at the very least have to be made in America.  Period.  I appreciate everything you just said, and I appreciate this opportunity more than you can know.  I do.  And if it's possible, I'd like to tell The Designer personally--how much I appreciate this, again.  But that is my line in the sand.  I'm so sorry.

So, that's how we left it.  Or, at least, that's how I would have left it had this whole thing actually happened.  None of it did.  I have no real excuse for the ridiculously long time between posts.  I was lying fallow, bereft of ideas, and enjoying early spring in NEO.  I beg your indulgence and hope for your forgiveness.

These People Are The Plastic Silverware Of The News Business

Probably it is A Good Thing that I have not lost my ability to be astonished at the age of almost fifty-three.  It would be mitigated considerably did I not watch quite so much News Programming.

I swear to you that I do far more talking to the people on television who irritate me than I do to those actually in my presence.  Can just anyone get an On-Air Gig these days?  It sure seems like it because some of these "on-air personalities" say such goofy stuff that, once I hear it, I sit there open-mouthed, blinking and furrow-browed, wondering if it is Bring A Bystander To Work Day.

For example:

~*~Was I the only one who heard the blurb for (I think) Inside Edition in which the personality breathlessly directed viewers to join them for their report about the Costa Concordia disaster, "a real-life Titanic!"?  Oh, help me now.  I like to call this The Disney Effect.  Just like the vast majority of America's children have no idea that there ever was a story/fairytale of Snow White or Cinderella or Beauty and the Beast first, (or that Pocahontas was a real person), some yahoo at Inside Edition honestly believes that the Titanic is simply a boat in a movie. Or just a movie. Period.

~*~A couple weekends ago, when the film The Vow went wide, some reviewer was on a morning show.  She was asked, "Who is this movie for?"  This woman went on to say this (and this is not a direct quote, but I am damn close. Seriously.): "Oh, females will definitely want to see this.  This is a film for women.  And girls will definitely want to see this, definitely.  And men.  This is a film for them as well."  Why does this female/girl/woman have this job? I definitely don't know.

~*~This week, there was a string of horrible storms in the South.  Alabama got hit with tornadoes that did terrible damage.  CNN cut live to a location where a local reporter was ready to talk to a host named Robin and give her an idea of the extent of that damage.  Here is how it went:

Robin:  Now we'll go live to H---, Alabama where a local affiliate has a reporter standing by.
Reporter:  Hi, Robin.  As you can see, residents here are coming back to little more than rubble here in H---.  The tornado destroyed homes, uprooted trees, and left massive piles of debris behind.
Robin:  Wow.  Quite a scene there.
Reporter:  It's amazing.  And here, just to show you the mighty power of that incredible storm...look up in that tree.  (camera pans up into a nearby tree)  That...is a pillow.  A pillow up in that tree.
...............................................................

Okay...what?  Listen, I am five-four and have had a shoulder surgery and I can throw a freaking pillow up into a tree.  I can also make a regulation three-point shot with a basketball and haul a 42-pound box of cat litter to and from my car, yet no one has ever described me as a "mighty power."  At least not for any of that.  My point is, that tornado levelled the entire town and you are impressed with a pillow in a tree?  If it was a tractor, then we have something to talk about.  If it was a pillow sticking through a tree, then, yeah, we can be amazed.  But come on! 

In the Age Of The 24-Hour News Cycle, it would seem "professional journalism" is on its way to becoming an oxymoron.